


About the Money

by laurashapiro



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-10-12
Updated: 1999-10-12
Packaged: 2017-10-02 02:18:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurashapiro/pseuds/laurashapiro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No power on earth could make Xander tell us, so I had to do it myself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	About the Money

**Author's Note:**

> I was bowled over by the confidence that Xander radiated in The Freshman -- it made me fall in love with him all over again. I wanted to explore how the events of the third season and of the summer we didn't see might account for that confidence.
> 
> This is totally unbetaed and I am not ashamed. (:

Without thinking, Xander wiped the sweat from his forehead. In doing   
so, he painted a stripe of hot, filthy dishwater there. Not really an   
improvement. Wearily, he rubbed his face against his comparatively   
dry bicep. God, he smelled *rank*. The steam rising from the sink,   
carrying odors of overchlorinated water, soap, and a dozen crappy   
dinners, added to the general squalor. Another evening at the Fabulous   
Ladies' Nite in Oxnard, California.

The Ladies' Nite. Even Xander knew it was spelled n-i-g-h-t, and the   
error (it was probably intentional) grated on him, the way the bass-  
heavy techno from the stage grated on him, the way the constant   
clatter and shout of the kitchen grated on him -- all seemed to   
highlight -- hilite, he thought grimly -- the fact that he had once again   
landed hard on his ass, this time in a cheesy dive where he wasn't   
even remotely tempted to flirt with the strippers.

Still, at six bucks an hour, this was the best job he'd ever had. He was   
still in shock over his recent raise. When he hadn't quit after the first   
week, the manager had abruptly moved him out of the world of the   
minimum wage slave. Even so, he was going to have to wash a lot of   
dishes before he could get out of Oxnard.

That Uncle Rory's car had turned out to be a piece of shit had failed to   
surprise him -- given the circumstances surrounding his acquisition of   
the vehicle, he was just glad that it, and he, had made it through   
graduation. What had surprised him was how much it was going to   
cost to replace the car. Even considering the rent he wasn't paying (he   
had been sleeping in the immobile car until Bob, the manager, had   
discovered this and let him crash on the dressing room sofa), he   
figured it was still going to take him about three more months to save   
the $400 for a piece of shit that would actually *move*.

The insistent *thumpa thumpa* of dance music muscled its way to the   
foreground over the kitchen noise and the hum of voices, signaling   
that the floorshow was about to begin. Sure enough, an answering   
cheer rose as the audience greeted the Ladies' Nite Gents.

*Thumpa thumpa thumpa* //Christ, does anyone actually listen to   
this stuff?//

Screams, as the first of the Gents took the stage. Xander did not wonder   
what it must be like to have a crowd of women scream at the sight of   
you. He had had that experience, up close and personal. In spite of the   
heat, he shivered, remembering Willow with an axe, Mrs. Summers   
with a knife. Of course, the idea of a lot of women screaming for his   
body *without* wanting to chop it into pieces was a rather novel one.

"Harris..."

The manager, resplendent in a double-knit polyester ensemble that   
was, inexplicably, in style again, was eyeing him in critical appraisal.

"Bob. What can I do for ya, big guy?" Xander had felt friendly toward   
Bob since his raise, not to mention the couch-crashing, and the man   
seemed to appreciate his jocularity.

"Can you dance?"

Well, this was unforeseen. "Gosh, Bob, I never knew you cared."

"Wise-ass. Tommy called in sick and I need you to cover him."

"Cover him. Cover...yeah, well, usually he can cover himself, and   
more to the point, uncover himself, without my help, and why do I get   
the feeling I'm going to hate this?"

"It's no big deal. You do two songs, shake your ass, and collect the   
money. That's all there is to it."

Oh my god, Bob was actually asking him to...

"Except for the part about taking my clothes off. Which is, you know,   
what some people would consider the most important part."

"Come on, kid. I just need somebody out there to keep the ladies happy   
and buying drinks." They were never "customers" to Bob, or "the   
audience", or even "the house". They were always "the ladies". It was   
pretty creepy, really.

"I'm really not --"

"Listen Harris, do you know how much those guys make? Two songs,   
you can make a hundred bucks easy. A hundred bucks in ten minutes.   
And since you're doing me a favor I'll even waive the stage fee this   
time."

A hundred bucks. With what he'd saved in the past month and a half,   
he'd be about two thirds of the way from getting the fuck out of this   
place.

Almost naked. Dancing. On stage. In front of a bunch of strangers.   
Women. Strange women.

But really, he wouldn't be any more naked than he'd been at swim   
meets. He'd had strangers staring at him then, too. Women, even.

A hundred bucks.

"You know, my dishpan hands are bound to be a turnoff."

Bob clapped him on the shoulder. "Atta boy. Now go to the dressing   
room and get Chuck to find you a costume. You're up in   
fifteen minutes."

Xander untied his apron and wiped his hands with it. "I can't believe   
I'm doing this."

"Hey, you'll do fine. You're a good-looking kid."

***

Okay, he was going to be a *lot* more naked than he'd been at swim   
meets. Xander held up the emerald green thong, composed of some   
substance not found in nature. And sequins. Apparently his   
humiliation was just beginning.

Chuck, tanned, well-muscled, and stripped to the waist, took a drag off   
his cigarette. "Whatcha making that face for? I told you it's clean." He   
rummaged around the clothing rack and pulled out some black pants   
and a green satin shirt. "Here. The pants break away -- see? There's two   
layers here. You pull here, and then you've got shorts. You tug on this,   
and the shorts go."

//I cannot *believe* I am doing this.// "And I guess I just rip them off   
at the climactic point of the song, and then I can leave?"

"Not if you want to make any money. Look, don't go by the music so   
much. Time it by how the crowd is reacting. You'll be able to tell when   
they want more. And when you're down to the g-string is the best time   
to get friendly with them."

"Friendly?"

"Go to the edge of the stage. Get in their faces. You're not allowed to   
touch them, but they can touch you. Oh, and don't forget to smile."   
Chuck tilted his head as the thumping beat that was shaking the stage   
shifted. "Buddy's on his last number. You're up next. Better get ready.   
I'll go tell Steve to announce you." He headed for the door.

Announce me. My world premiere as a slab of beef. "Wait! Don't let   
him use my real name."

Chuck grinned. "Okay, Harris. What name do you want him to use?"

Xander thought for a moment, then smiled in spite of himself.   
"O'Toole. Alex O'Toole."

And then Chuck was gone and he was left to transform himself. //A   
hundred bucks. Just keep thinking about the money. Hey, is that how   
hookers do it?//

The shirt was a welcome coolness on his heated skin, and the thong   
made him extremely aware of parts of his body he rarely thought about.   
Maybe too aware.

//Oh geez, what if I...?// He willed himself to relax. That hadn't   
happened to him in years. //Besides, all the blood is going to be in my   
face.//

Screams and applause. Buddy's number was ending. //Oh, shit.//

Xander took one last glance in the mirror. Sweat had curled his hair.   
The shirt hugged his chest, outlining the tense play of the muscles of   
his chest and arms. The pants caressed his thighs, and were ingeniously   
constructed to make his half-hard cock appear more pronounced.

His eyes looked panicked. //"You're a good-looking kid." Yeah, right.//

"...And now, the Fabulous Ladies Night is proud to introduce,   
performing for the first time on any stage, a tasty treat from Sunnydale,   
Alex! O'Toole! Come on, ladies, let's show him that the first time isn't   
always painful!"

//Fucking Steve. I'll get you for this. // And then he was onstage,   
trying to get into that thumpa thumpa beat. Shit, he was blind! No one   
had told him about this! The stage lights were washing out everything   
in an invasive glare -- he could hear the women, but he couldn't see   
them. Hell, maybe that was a good thing, actually.

Xander squinted and let the music take over for a while, moving his   
feet, thrusting his hips. Funny, at the Bronze he'd never thought of it   
as thrusting. That damned thong. He ignored it and let himself feel the   
beat, tried to zone out a little. It seemed to work. He could feel himself   
relax a fraction. Was he smiling? He was supposed to smile. There.

The audience was quiet; not crickets quiet, but "you don't impress us   
yet" quiet. Oh. Well then, it was probably time to take something off.   
The shirt. Start with the shirt. //I can handle this. I can handle this.//

As he reached for the top button, a little wave of excitement rose in the   
audience and flowed onto the stage. They were happy. They *wanted*   
him to take off his shirt. They were looking *forward* to it.

And suddenly the panic was gone. Just like that, gone. His heart still   
pounded, but now it was a pounding of exertion, of pride. A little   
frisson of pleasure shivered up his spine. Making Faith come had felt   
like this. Letting Cordy make a fool of herself had felt like this.   
Winning the Ascension battle had felt like this. He was in control.

It felt good. He knew for sure he was smiling now, and he rolled his   
shoulders and hips and let the music and the heat of the lights play   
over him. He inched his hand down to the second button, then the   
third, tugging the shirt open to show a little of his chest. Whistles and   
cheers. He had them. He had them now.

Seized by a flash of inspiration, Xander sank to his knees, legs spread,   
and leaned back as he finished unbuttoning the shirt. What was left of   
his usual brain told him he was going to be in a lot of pain tomorrow,   
but the reaction of the crowd was more than worth it.

The shirt was off and he brought his arms down. Female strippers   
touched themselves. Maybe they'd like that. Bouncing slightly with the   
music, he stroked slowly down his chest with one hand, and slowly up   
his thigh with the other. The purr of the audience was lower this time,   
a hum rather than a scream, but packed with low-frequency intensity   
that shivered back into him. He was giving, and they were giving back.

Dimly, he also noticed that his hands felt good on his body, and that   
while he'd smelled rank before, he smelled sexy now.

His eyes were adjusting to the light, or maybe he'd just figured out how   
to keep his eyes below the beams, because he could now pick out   
individual faces in the audience. He had a moment of fear, complicated   
by wondering how the hell he was going to stand up again. He kept   
bouncing.

Their faces were rapt, or laughing. Hey, that woman there, she was   
talking to her friend. //No, dammit! Pay attention to *me*!// Xander   
leaned back and put his hand on the stage, flexing his feet so that his   
toes were in contact with the floor. He rocked forward and pitched to   
his feet. Not too bad. That woman was still gabbing, though.   
Unacceptable.

Getting back into the groove, Xander turned to show his back to the   
audience, rocking his hips quickly against the beat. He groped for the   
velcro tabs at his waist and yanked.

The pants flew off to the accompaniment of screams, and he turned   
and faced them, marching down the stage toward them with what he   
hoped was an arrogant strut. He smoothed his hands down both thighs   
and then, as an afterthought, up to palm his nipples. They were hard.   
//Mmm.//

More screams, and he sought out that one face. She was slack-jawed,   
staring, an embarrassed smile tilting the corners of her mouth.   
//Yes!// Triumphantly, Xander winked at her and thrilled in her   
resultant fluster.

Sliding his hands up to hook his thumbs in the waistband of his shorts,   
he stepped on something that felt crunchy. Money. There were bills all   
over the stage.

Just then Xander noticed that the second song was fading up over the   
first. He didn't have much time left. Better make it count.

Thumbs still in his waistband, he inched it down slowly, then back up   
again, then turned and did the same, rolling his ass slowly. He felt   
shameless, and he loved it. He was also getting hard, but that didn't   
seem like a bad thing at all. While his back was to the crowd, he took a   
moment to shift himself to one side, hoping to keep his cock from   
poking out of the thong. His hand felt way too good. //Time for that   
later.//

"The ladies" were chanting something that sounded like "Do it! Do it!   
Do it!" and he'd never felt so high in his whole life. He turned his   
head to look at them over his shoulder, smiled, and ripped the shorts   
away. The breeze across his ass seemed to be propelled by the hysterical   
cheering of the crowd.

Xander turned to face them, smiling his head off, humping the air,   
caressing himself everywhere but where they wanted him to. They   
looked crazed, but he wasn't afraid of them. Time to make some   
money.

He got down to the edge of the stage and began to pick out individual   
faces, as a sea of hands stroked his ankles and calves and waved bills at   
him. He collected them //Where do I put these?// and kept moving.   
Almost all the women he made eye contact with offered him money,   
and he rewarded each of them with an extra bump and grind.

Xander wanted more. He moved down to a squat and kept grinding,   
and this time the bills were being tucked into his thong, stiff-soft paper   
sliding over his hips, against his groin, hands fondling him, stroking   
his ass, and he wasn't quite so hard anymore because it didn't feel like   
sex anymore. It felt like power.

It was all a blur after that, working the crowd, humping the stage, his   
ears filled with noise. More than a few eager fingers tried to pull off his   
thong, but he was able to squirm away, off to more bills, more hands.   
Eventually the music faded away and Steve's voice broke in.

"How about Alex O'Toole!"

Xander grinned broadly and, not knowing quite what to do, took a bow.   
His normal self was starting to fade in around the edges, the self he   
recognized, the Xander that *usually* didn't know what to do. He ran   
around the stage, picking up the tips as quickly as he could, and then   
headed for the dressing room. He passed Chuck in the wings.

"Nice going."

"Thanks." He still felt good.

And felt better when he sat on the dressing room sofa and counted one   
hundred and twelve dollars. There were a couple of tens in there, and   
even a twenty. //Holy shit.//

"Be sorry to lose you as a dishwasher, Harris." Bob leaned against the   
doorframe, smiling smugly.

"Bob...wow. I don't know."

"Come on, they loved you out there. You can do two or three shows a   
day. We have room for you."

Math had never been Xander's best subject, but as he struggled to tally   
up what that might mean, he felt like a cartoon character with dollar   
signs where his eyes should have been.

But it wasn't about the money. Not really.

"Bob, you've got yourself a new stripper."

 

THE END


End file.
